


Changing Tunes

by cagethesongbird



Series: A(geplay) Corp [3]
Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Bathing/Washing, Caregiver Tyrell Wellick, Caretaking, Carrying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Diapers, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Mush, Little Elliot, Love, M/M, Non-Sexual Age Play, Sickfic, Stuffed Toys, Thumb-sucking, just... alotta love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:06:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22769791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cagethesongbird/pseuds/cagethesongbird
Summary: Elliot comes down with a nasty cold, but is determined to stay big and take care of himself. It doesn't exactly take long for him to change his tune.
Relationships: Elliot Alderson & Tyrell Wellick, Elliot Alderson/Tyrell Wellick
Series: A(geplay) Corp [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1617634
Comments: 5
Kudos: 55





	Changing Tunes

**Author's Note:**

> i had a shitty week and coming home to write this honestly made me feel better. its niche and mostly for me but i love elliot and he deserves this so :)  
> also happy belated valentine's day! hope uve got a tyrell or elliot in ur life
> 
> enjoy!

“Are you wet?” Tyrell asks the pile of blankets scrunched up in their gigantic, King-sized bed.

The pile of blankets groans, shimmies a bit, and produces several dark tufts of thoroughly bed-headed hair. Tyrell sets the cool glass of water he’d gone to fetch on the bedside table and runs his fingers through the tufts. They’re damp and fever-warm, limp in his hands.

“Hmm?” Tyrell asks, frowning slightly. He’d hoped the fever would have broken by now.

The blankets move some more, and the mossy-green eyes of Elliot Alderson peep up through them. He considers Tyrell in several slow blinks. It takes him a moment to register that this is his real boyfriend and caregiver – and not some loopy, dream-approximation of him.

“Hi, baby,” Tyrell tries again. He pushes sweaty strands of hair back from Elliot’s forehead. “It’s not time for your medicine yet, but I brought you some water. Are you wet?”

“I’m an adult,” Elliot mumbles, somehow going even hotter in the face than he already was.

So, the answer was yes, then. Elliot didn’t pay the greatest attention to his bodily needs – forgetting to eat, sleep, and, yes, even use the bathroom – whether he was feeling big or small. This bout of illness, with its low-grade fever and spells of often, fitful sleep, wasn’t going to help him remember. Unfortunately, when he was feeling mostly adult like this, his pride clouded simple facts.

Tyrell, stubborn as he was, wasn’t going to sacrifice their mattress over a little bit of embarrassment. Elliot, stubborn as he was, wasn’t going to let Tyrell have it that easy. There had been quite a tiff over the whole thing before Elliot, in a haze of Benadryl, wore himself out enough for Tyrell to pull a diaper over his skinny hips.

“I never said you weren’t,” Tyrell says matter-of-factly.

Elliot moans, unhappy and overdramatic, and rolls onto his stomach. He scooches as far away from Tyrell as the bed would let him go and covers his face with his clammy hands, trying to get better through sheer force of will.

Elliot was miserable when he got sick. Nobody liked being under the weather, but he absolutely _loathed_ it.

He loathed the fog that covered his mind, loathed not being able to concentrate. Loathed the chills, the tears, and how needy and dependent sickness made him. Loathed the memories it dredged up, whether the wheel of trauma landed on sticking out childhood flus alone or sweating through his sheets in another failed attempt to detox from morphine.

“Come on, _sötnos,_ ” Tyrell soothes in his velvety-soft voice; the one he tended to favor when Elliot was little. He rubs at Elliot’s calf through the blankets. “Go take a shower – a nice cool one. You’ll feel better.”

Elliot wants to snap that he’ll still be sick and miserable, but he doesn’t have the energy. He just groans again, low and pitiful and congested.

“I can carry you, if you want,” Tyrell says, mostly joking. Though of course, if Elliot wanted it, there would be no hesitation. Elliot pokes his head up to glare at him, but Tyrell only grins, pleased to have gotten any reaction at all.

“I’m an _adult_ ,” Elliot repeats, but it comes out too whiny to be terribly convincing. Elliot glares again, this time at himself.

He does get up to shower, though – dragging himself away from his comfortable blanket nest and shuffling into their teeny bathroom, ignoring Tyrell’s concerned gaze as it trails after him.

He squeaks the shower on and peels out of his sweaty sleep clothes, messing with the tabs of the diaper before deeming it too much of a hassle and simply sliding it off like underwear. It drops heavily – wet, just like Tyrell had insisted.

Elliot fails to ignore that, though he tries. It makes him feel conflicted: he’s supposed to be grown and mature, to need to rely on no one. At the same time, he knows he should give himself a break. He never got the chance to be needy the way kids were supposed to be. He’s making up for lost time. 

And the shower _does_ make him feel better, clearing up his sinuses even though the water isn’t very hot. Another win for Tyrell. He has the lead in Elliot’s imaginary game of wits.

Elliot shuts his eyes and relaxes, letting the water wash the fever-ick from his body. With a little luck and another dose of reducers, maybe it’ll stay away. He lathers up his hair with shampoo, unthinkingly grabbing whatever bottle is closest and ending up with the high-grade, organic, lemony shit Tyrell liked.

He goes to rinse and, still slightly klutzy from lying down for so long, takes a misstep. He doesn’t tilt his head back far enough under the water, and the lather streams backward into his eyes.

“Fuck,” he mutters, groping around for a washcloth, or something of the sort. There isn’t one. Tyrell must have done laundry while Elliot was passed out.

“Fucking – Jesus –“ Elliot swears, and scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. But of course, that doesn’t work – his hands are still soapy, too.

Elliot drops his hands, squinting his eyes through the burn. The water’s going cold, and he has an ache in his chest, like he needed to hack up something ugly. He feels icky again, the sickness fog sliding back over his brain, and he _hates_ it.

“Tyrell,” he calls, not even feeling well enough to raise his voice to a true yell. It feels like a forfeit, almost – _yeah, you were right, I can’t take care of myself._ But Elliot’s eyes are screaming bloody murder, and he’s about two minutes from a meltdown. So, he doesn’t care, really.

Tyrell must have been hovering, because suddenly he’s materialized in the bathroom. “Elliot?”

“Rell,” Elliot whines, using the nickname he’d gifted Tyrell when he was feeling little, and those damned T sounds wouldn’t come out right. “Hurts.”

Tyrell pulls back the shower curtain and is met with a sorry sight: Elliot, wet and shivering in the since-gone-cold water, hair still soapy, eyes squeezed shut. It’s then that Elliot’s body decides it needs its phlegm gone _now,_ and he’s wracked with a coughing fit that has him doubled over, spitting into the drain.

“Oh, honey,” Tyrell murmurs. He lays his broad palm against Elliot’s back and gives him a few solid pats.

How dearly he wishes Elliot would just let him step in and take care of him everything… but he knows better than to push. Elliot would see it as a breech of his independence, when Tyrell only wanted to stop predicaments like these.

“Hurts, hurts,” Elliot cries, futilely clenching and unclenching his hands, trying to self-soothe.

“You got soap in your eyes?” Tyrell asks. If Elliot had been paying better attention, he’d probably frown at the note of amusement in Tyrell’s voice.

Elliot nods sadly, like it was just too completely devastating for him. Tyrell smiles a little smile, soft and fond, knowing full well Elliot can’t see him. This is what he loved so much about age play, besides the fact that it gave Elliot the comfort he had never really known.

When they played, Tyrell could fix every problem. Whether it be kissing boo-boos or de-soaping eyes, it was never so terrible as to go unsolved.

Tyrell had always wanted to feel important. He’d put his life and career on the line chasing that high, but the importance of being needed filled a void he didn’t even know he had. The world outside of their play was often so tangled and messy. Tyrell cherished the simplicity of caring for his baby.

“Is that all?” Tyrell teases gently. Elliot nods again, still hunched over. The joke literally flies right over his head. “Well, that’s no good. Come here.”

Tyrell coaxes Elliot into standing back under the chilly shower stream and runs his hands through Elliot’s hair, washing out the shampoo. When he’s sure it’s all gone, he takes the edge the towel he’d brought with him and wipes Elliot’s eyes until he can open them again.

Elliot blinks a few times and sags against Tyrell, boneless with relief. He’s getting both Tyrell and the floor outside of the tub wet, but Tyrell doesn’t particularly care. Considering how anal-retentive he used to be, he’s gotten so much better at letting the small stuff go.

And thank God for that – toddlers weren’t exactly known for their ability to keep things orderly.

“Ready to get out?” Tyrell asks softly. Elliot nods, absently chewing on two fingers. He’d been fighting that little feeling all day, but thanks to the soap crisis, was quickly tumbling towards it.

Since his hands are clean, Tyrell lets the chewing go for now. He holds out the towel and bundles Elliot into it, blowing a raspberry kiss against Elliot’s cheek as he does. Elliot giggles quietly, burying his face in the soft towel fabric. Elliot’s laughter came far and few between, and it was always music to Tyrell’s ears.

Tyrell picks up Elliot’s dirty clothes and ushers him out of the bathroom. He throws the clothes in the hamper and putters around their bedroom, pulling out the various odds and ends that Elliot used when he was small.

They had quickly realized that, while little, Elliot didn’t like having to make those choices himself. It only took one hysterical attempt to pick between shirts to figure that one out.

Tyrell supposed it was some residual effect of once having to make _so many_ hard choices when he was big, and he didn’t mind picking up the slack.

Tyrell loves Elliot’s drawer of little clothes. He’d spent an enjoyable day or two filling up his online shopping cart with things he thought Elliot might like. Shirts printed with cartoony pictures and corny sayings, colorful shorts and soft pants, unlike anything Elliot would wear while adult. Stretchy socks that had fabric pieces designed to make them look like rainboots. Things that brought back memories.

Elliot didn’t speak of his childhood often, but when he did, the same things came up. He liked animals, and had always had some kind of pet around, from Flipper to Qwerty the fish to Moonpie the kitten when he was young. He liked soft things, things with nice textures. He liked the color green, and those obscure learning cartoons that only came on public broadcasting. He liked Back to the Future – even appreciated the shitty threequel. Tyrell tried to incorporate all that, too.

Tyrell comes back to Elliot, who sits Indian style on their bed with the towel pulled around his shoulders, fingers still firmly lodged in his mouth. He’d dug out the pink stuffed kitten lovingly dubbed Crescent, like the moon, and began rubbing her silky ears across his face. She tended to have a permanent residency around their bed, whether Elliot was little or not.

“Rell,” Elliot murmurs when he catches sight of Tyrell. He sounds much more congested than he had in the shower, but that was probably to be expected.

“I’m here, my love,” Tyrell promises.

He tries not to think about what Elliot’s attachment anxiety really means – that, after everything, he’s afraid Tyrell is going to leave him.

However, now isn’t the time to firmly tell Elliot that, unless they were to ever come to some sort of mutual dissent, he was staying right where he was. Now is the time to pull Elliot into a warm hug before lovingly changing him – show him the same sentiment without all the tricky words. 

And that’s exactly what Tyrell does.

Elliot is cooperative and pliant, pushing his arms into the sleeves Tyrell guides him to, and lifting his legs for the diaper. He’s firmly little, now, because there’s no unhappy crease between his eyes when Tyrell tapes him up. He only sighs with the familiar protected feeling, eyes fluttering shut. 

Tyrell pats Elliot’s skinny thigh when he’s finished, clipping a binky onto his shirt for good measure. Elliot’s eyes pop open. He grins around the finger hooked in his mouth, happy to see Tyrell is still there. With his free hand, he scratches at the design on his shirt – a smiling sun, of a different, plasticky texture to the rest of the fabric.

“The sun,” he says, garbled by his finger.

“Yes, the sun!” Tyrell agrees, rubbing his own hand over the design. “The sun lights up the world, just like you light up my world.”

Elliot rolls his head from side to side, taking that in. Then he does something he didn’t often do – raises his arms in a wordless request to be held.

“Ah,” Tyrell says, surprised and pleased. It’s not difficult to pull Elliot onto his hip, and Tyrell is glad. He often fretted over Elliot’s low body weight, but here, it came in handy.

Elliot winds his arms around Tyrell’s neck and buries his face into his shoulder, snuffling as if in search of truffles. Tyrell laughs to himself, warm contentment spilling through his chest. With the arm not cradling Elliot, he scoops up the beloved Crescent.

“Don’t forget your _kattunge,_ my love,” Tyrell reminds, waving the stuffed kitty in front of him.

Elliot takes her with greedy hands, combing through her short fur with his fingers. He hums the way he did when words alluded him, but its high-pitched-pleasant. He’s also feeling pretty content.

Tyrell rhythmically bounces Elliot in his arms. It’s late afternoon, and, in his sickness, Elliot hadn’t eaten. With his low weight still in mind, Tyrell makes his way into the kitchen.

They had a nice little eating area; at least, Elliot thought so. When he had lived alone, he’d had no need for a real kitchen. He’d either opt to eat on the sofa or, more often, not to eat at all. It was another sign of the life they had built together – the crumbs on the counter, the pulled-out chairs, the curtains pulled back to let sunlight stream onto the floor, making the warm patch where Flipper slept.

Elliot makes no move to get down, so Tyrell keeps him on his hip, perhaps a little eager to soak up this close affection. He figures sandwiches are a safe bet, and not too hard to assemble one-handed. He also pulls down the Benadryl, vaguely wondering how Elliot will take to the pills while small.

It takes a few moments to successfully unhook Elliot from around his neck, but Tyrell manages. He gets Elliot situated in his chair, and before he can fuss, slides the food in front of him. It’s on a paper plate shaped like a bear, because, how else would you have a sandwich?

Elliot doesn’t eat with any sort of gusto, even though he must be hungry. Tyrell finishes making a sandwich for himself and passes Elliot a sippy cup of water. That, at least, he pulls thirstily from.

“Here,” Tyrell says, shaking two Benadryl from their bottle. Elliot makes a face, like he’s unsure what Tyrell’s asking from him. Maybe he didn’t – the wires could be easily crossed if Tyrell wasn’t explicit.

“Say ‘ _ahh’_ ,” Tyrell says, sticking out his tongue. Obediently, Elliot mimics him, and Tyrell places the two little pills in his mouth. He brings the sippy cup to Elliot’s mouth and Elliot drinks, washing them down.

“Good job, _älskling,”_ Tyrell praises, chucking him under the chin. Elliot squirms and huffs, almost seeming indignant if Tyrell didn’t know better. He loved the affection – needed it, craved it – but wasn’t the best at receiving it.

Like many things, it was a work in progress.

Elliot barely eats his sandwich, even with gentle prodding from Tyrell. When he finally pinches his lips into a thin _no more, thanks_ line, turning his head away, Tyrell backs off. Elliot didn’t eat very much when he was feeling well, and big, anyhow. Besides – Tyrell has a secret weapon, to both ease his mind and fill Elliot’s tummy.

The sun is setting, and their apartment glows in the dim, orangey light. Flipper waddles in from wherever she’d been sleeping, and the familiar sound of her crunching on dog food can be heard.

“Get up?” Elliot asks. He gestures to the couch with Crescent, who had never left the clutches of his fist.

“You’re sure you’re not hungry?” Tyrell asks, looking down at Elliot’s plate. Four bites, if that, had been taken from the sandwich.

Elliot shakes his head, like Tyrell knew he would.

“Okay,” Tyrell sighs. “Go ahead.”

Elliot toddles away, speaking softly to his stuffed kitten. Tyrell watches him for just a second, as he settles himself on the couch. He loves everything about Elliot, big or little, rain or shine – but he especially loves him like this. Happy, relaxed. At peace.

Tyrell clears off the table and whips out his secret weapon: a vanilla meal replacement shake, warmed, and put in a baby bottle. It’s not the most creative of solutions, but it’s his, and he’s sticking with it.

He sings in his usual, tone-deaf candor as he waits for the microwave to beep, some Swedish children’s song he hadn’t thought of in ages. Often, the time spent like this, caring for Elliot, brought back waves of Tyrell’s childhood memories.

He remembered his mother, of her making soup for him when he came down with whatever illness the kids were catching. He never imagined he’d find himself doing something similar – children were never his thing. But, then again, this was no ordinary child. This was Elliot, and he’d always do this for Elliot.

Elliot’s bobbling his head contentedly when Tyrell goes back to him, finding him perched on the couch. Tyrell couldn’t imagine why, knowing what a terrible singer he was, but Elliot seemed to really enjoy the songs Tyrell knew.

“Rell,” Elliot says, reaching for him. He’s holding something besides Crescent, now – one of his board books. _Goodnight Moon,_ by Margaret Wise Brown.

“Hello, my love,” Tyrell says, and pulls Elliot into his lap. “I’ve got something for you – and it looks like you have something for me, yeah?”

They do a little exchange – Tyrell taking the book from Elliot while edging the bottle into his mouth. Elliot decides he likes it, or that he’s too hungry to refuse, because he drops Crescent next to him to hold the bottle with both hands.

Tyrell switches on the lamp beside the couch, flooding the room in soft light. Elliot pops the bottle halfway out of his mouth, shake dribbling down his chin. Tyrell catches the liquid with his finger and wipes it on his jeans.

“Read?” Elliot asks. “P’ease?” His voice is tiny and soft. Tyrell wants to capture it in a locket and wear it around his neck, close to his heart.

“Of course,” Tyrell says. He nudges the bottle back into Elliot’s mouth, who sighs resignedly and begins to drink again. He scoots closer and lays his head against the top of Tyrell’s chest, listening to the steady, soothing drum of his heartbeat. Tyrell wraps an arm around him, laying his head against Elliot’s still-damp curls.

He clears his throat.

“In the great green room, there was a telephone. And a red balloon. And a picture of –“


End file.
